


It's Harder To Touch The Things That Are Dearer

by Fiendishfools



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Birthday Party, Fluff, It's not the apocalypse and everyone's canadian still, M/M, Modern Era, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23744674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiendishfools/pseuds/Fiendishfools
Summary: Courfeyrac celebrates his twenty third birthday, and Combeferre is assigned the duty of making sure he makes it home in one piece. In the heat of the moment, Combeferre forgets to keep it together himself.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	It's Harder To Touch The Things That Are Dearer

If there was one known certainty about the universe, it was that Courfeyrac liked to fuckin’ party. 

Didn’t matter the occasion. Finals finally over? Pre-holidays break before everyone went back home? Dog baby shower? You name it, Courf was there, and likely at the centre of it. 

But there was one occasion that stood above the rest, at least in terms of intensity. The passage of time didn’t really mean anything to Courf, but his birthday was the best way to get everyone he loved in one place, all having a good time. No talk of rallies or meetings with heavy social undertones—just fun. And dancing. 

That was the impetus for his twenty-third birthday. He’d gone out of his way to book a VIP booth all the way at the back of a local nightclub, finally indulging int that long-discarded dream he’d tucked away. There was something awful about the desire for bottle service and a chance to dress in fancy clothes, but it wasn’t a typical one, either. He didn’t wish for it on the daily, nor did he yearn for a lavish life of debauchery. But no one could resist a chance to pretend every once in a while, and so the theme was extravagance: come as your most extra self. 

He couldn’t wait.

The whole ABC was going to meet at Marius and Cosette’s for dinner and drinks beforehand, since their place was bigger. Poor Marius was embarassed about it sometimes, that and his old money—but he’d taken it in stride, literally, using what he had to help out their little group, and making it up to his ex-roommate whose heart he’d broken upon moving out. Courfeyrac was still getting over it, but they’d made up on the sole fact that Courf couldn’t resist how cute of a couple he and Cosette were. It was impossible to hate that girl even if you wanted to, he’d found, even if she stole your roommate without so much as a second thought. 

The whole place had been decorated in hanging streamers and fairy lights at Courf’s behest, but it was the guests that truly brought it all to life. 

He’d caught Ferre’s eye from across the table as they ate, sharing a look with him as Jehan stood on a chair to make a toast—soon the whole table was standing, too, (even Courf, though were you meant to stand for your own toast?). They’d clinked their glasses together in the kitchen over dishes; clean your plate, take a glass, though Courf stole a drink from Musichetta, her glass tilted precariously in her outstretched hand. When he’d ended up with prosecco all over his shirt, it was Ferre who threw him a dish towel to dry off with. 

Joly had called the night the perfect celebration of Courf, “A little bit of delightful chaos.” he’d mused, as they walked arm in arm down the bust sidewalk towards the club. Grantaire relished in skipping the line, gratefully accepting the fist-bump from the bouncer who Courf recognized for having kicked him not even a month prior. The two of them had ended up at a billiards hall closer to the water. It’d been fun, but it was nothing like the noise and the thrumming beat that reverberated all the way through his grin as they made they way to the VIP section. 

Courf danced and sang until his throat was raw. He kissed every one of his friends on the cheek as they left, wishing him wonderful years and promises to see him at next week’s meeting—until the last call had been called, and he and Ferre stumbled out into the night. 

Well, Ferre didn’t do any stumbling, seeing as he’d been designated in getting Courf home safe and sound. (“I will NOT HOOKUP WITH SOME STRANGER WHO’S JUST GOING TO BREAK MY HEART ON MY BIRTHDAY!” Courf had announced, not even a week prior. 

“Here here.” Grantaire had cheered, raising his flask from where he sat on Marius’ ottoman pushed up against the wall. Clearly the meeting had been derailed swimmingly.) 

Courf swung around the light post a block away from the pub, doing his damndest to conjure his best Gene Kelly, despite not… Actually knowing the words to Singin’ in the Rain. Was there even an apostrophe? Who knew! It didn’t matter, cause he was so pleased, and the cool air felt good on his skin. Ferre dutifully held onto his abandoned jacket as they walked (more or less). 

“Where to next, birthday boy?” Ferre offered, an eyebrow cocked as Courf jumped from the light’s raised platform back onto the steady pavement. 

“No night out, my dear Combeferre, is complete without shawarma.” He grinned. “I know a place just—just around the corner.” 

“Will it still be open?”

“Pffft, how late can it be?” 

“Nearly three.” Combeferre replied as he glanced down at his phone. 

Courf stopped dead in his tracks, gaping. 

“What?” Ferre stopped a couple paces too late, and turned to return Courf’s look. 

“You made it the whole night!” He bellowed, arms raising in celebration. 

Ferre beamed under the lamplight, shaking his head as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. Maybe the drinking had made his eyes bleary, but Courf thought he was silhouetted perfectly against the storefront behind him. The sign read: 

WORK   
WAREHOUSE

But all Courf could see was: 

WO  
W

Wow indeed, storefront. Wow indeed… Oh what it would be like to… Courf let the thought float away. It wasn’t the moment, he wasn’t sober enough, and Ferre certainly wouldn’t be the guy. If he kept reminding himself of that, he could make it home with his heart intact, as was the plan. 

He jogged ahead slightly to catch up with Ferre, and they rounded the corner to see the the bright green light of The King illuminating the sidewalk ahead of them. Courf smugly nudged Ferre with his elbow as if to say, see, told you so. 

By the time they ordered and sat down, three o’clock struck, and sure as water is wet the restaurant slowly started to fill up. Courf had lived one too many a similar night to let himself file out of the club along with the rest of the crowd once it closed. He’d made that mistake on his first ever night out alone. It was easy to get caught up in a bigger group if they were drunk enough, and the Carleton girls he’d befriended that night had raved about the joys of drunken shawarma. By the time they’d stumbled the couple blocks to the very restaurant where they currently sat, the line was already out the door, and two of the girls had given up before they’d even made it inside. 

“Then it was just me and Floreal—who’s actually really great, still.” Courf explained, wiping garlic sauce from the corner of his mouth before continuing. “She wanted to come tonight, and I said she totally could, but she didn’t wanna intrude on our whole group thing. She’s considerate like that. I think we’re gonna go out next weekend or something, not sure yet—hey, remind me to text her tomorrow morning.” 

Courf blinked himself back into the hazy fluorescence of the room in time to see Ferre nodding rather officially between bites of chicken shawarma. He still had Courf’s jacket, now hung across the back of his chair, and the blue of it framed his shoulders like a perfect painted background. It matched the frame of his glasses. Courf didn’t usually wear blue, but the thought had crossed his mind that maybe they could match in some way—

Though, that wasn’t a thought one reserved for anyone but a significant other, and well, Ferre was not that. 

Actually, for as long as they’d known each other, Courf hadn’t ever known Ferre to date. He did, apparently. At least, he had at one point. He and Marius had gone to high school together, and at the time Ferre had been in a fairly long-term relationship with a boy named Antoine, which was quite a feat on it’s own, both in the high-school-long-term sense, and the openly-gay-in-high-school sense. Courf remembered being impressed when he’d heard about it from Marius, but he hadn’t ever brought it up outside the sanctuary of their shared apartment, back when it was such. He’d figured that if Ferre wanted to talk about it, he would. They were close enough for it, certainly, but he never had. 

Behind Ferre, a group of frat guys chattered loudly, and he scrunched up his face in mock-frustration at the sound, like the expression he held when he couldn’t get a word in during a meeting. Courf cracked a smile. 

“Should we go?” 

“If that is what the birthday boy decrees, who am I to say no.” Ferre replied. 

“By royal decree, we should go!” Courf corrected, standing dramatically. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t that grand of a gesture, what with the partygoers milling about, standing, sitting, half-shouting as they ate or waited, but Courf could’ve sworn that Ferre still looked at him like he was… Fireworks going off on Canada day. 

He needed to go to bed. 

In the twenty minutes it’d taken them to order and eat, the temperature outside had plummeted, and they’d barely made it another block before Courf was reaching for his jacket, his open shirt no longer doing the trick. Their fingers brushed for just a second before Courf pulled back, halting their pilgrimage once more. He stood in front of Ferre with narrow eyes, the image of mischief. 

“The birthday king requires a cape.” He declared—though a moment later his expression softened as he added, “If you’d please.” 

Ferre chuckled, shaking his head, but unfolding the jacket all the same. He reached over Courf’s head and very carefully placed it upon his shoulders. 

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” He said. 

“Why thank you, my noble knight.” 

Ferre paused for just a second, his hands hovering over Courf’s shoulders, a bare heat where he’d been adjusting the makeshift cape just before. Courf’s smile held strong, the world was his kingdom after all, wasn’t it? And he had great friends who would celebrate with him no matter how late it was, or how drunk he got. He didn’t falter for a second, though the look on Ferre’s face was suddenly unreadable. He turned away, dropping his hands to his sides once more, and that’s when Courf heard it. 

“Jesus christ I am so fucking in love with you.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” Ferre was a record skipping a beat, he froze for a second before taking off down the sidewalk faster than before. “C’mon let’s get you home before you freeze.” 

“I heard that!” Courf chased after him. He caught hold of his arm, dragging him to a halt, though Ferre tried to continue on. At this rate they’d never get back to Courf’s place—but it didn’t matter. All he could hear were Ferre’s words on the wind, every distant car horn repeated it, and the hum of a neon sign above them drew it out. 

“You didn’t hear anything.” 

“Yes I did.” He wasn’t that drunk. 

“I’m not going to have this conversation with you now.” Ferre insisted, his face bright red.

“Why not?” 

“Because you’re drunk! And—“

“I am not that drunk.” Courf corrected. 

“And—it’s late, and it’s your birthday, and I need to get you home, and this is a bad time to do this.” 

Actually, Courf couldn’t think of a better time for a dramatic late-night kiss, but Ferre looked like he wanted to explode. Maybe Courf did too, but there was a haze settled over his brain, keeping him calm, keeping this okay, when in fact he did recognize how precarious this whole thing was. He could ruin it by insisting and Ferre would lock it away like he had all that time with Antoine, or he could surge ahead and have the deniability of drink, but that didn’t actually count towards real answers. Or—

He could a step back, releasing Ferre from his grip and raising both hands in cautious surrender. 

“If it’s the truth, say it again tomorrow, when the timing’s right.” 

Slowly, the record started to play at normal speed, and Ferre nodded. 

“Let’s get you home.” 

Courf didn’t dawdle, he kept pace with Ferre in the silence of the night, replaying those words over and over again in his head so that he wouldn’t forget when he woke up. Ferre had intended to spend the night on his couch, though now locking the door behind them held some kind of… New weight. Courf ignored it, Ferre too, and they went about their business like nothing had happened. Drinking water and eating bread and turning off the lights like any other night. Bidding no darkened goodnights, perhaps for fear of words, or intentional silence. 

Courf woke up hungover. 

His head pounded as hard as his heart in his chest, and so when he pulled himself from bed, towards the clatter in the kitchen is where he went first, hoping to cure one but not the other. 

Ferre was stood at the counter, fiddling with something unseen. On the stove two slices of french toast sizzled away. He turned when Courf flicked the lights on and off and on and off and back on again. 

“How’re you feeling?” 

“Rough.” Courf replied, leaning heavily against the wall. “Like someone’s taken a jackhammer to my brain without any kind of municipal permission beforehand.” 

“Maybe ease up on the light flicking, then?”

“I’ll take your electrical advice the moment you start paying my bills.” Courf teased, albeit gently. He watched as Ferre lazily flipped the two slices of french toast, which sizzled on impact, filling the silence. 

“Did you forget anything?"

“From last night? No… Don’t think so…” 

Ferre nodded, as if readying himself. The sentence alone was rife with subtext, though Courf didn’t intend on pushing any of it beyond what Ferre was willing to offer. He’d been relieved enough to see he hadn’t run off come dawn, that instead he was stood in his kitchen like he belonged there. 

Courf liked to think that he did. He could, if he wanted to. 

They could have more mornings, evenings, everything in-betweens if the silence didn’t last forever. 

“What it was…” Ferre started, glancing down as that red heat rose to his cheeks once more. “What I said was I—“

“I am so fucking in love with you.” Courf finished. “That’s what you said, and it’s what I’m saying now, also. Sober as hell.” He held up a hand in a boy scout’s salute. “And certain of it, even if that french toast is for friends only. I’d give it up, if that’s what it takes.” 

“But you love french toast.” Ferre laughed. He looked back up, grinning at Courf from across the kitchen. 

Not for long, mind you, cause Courf had abandoned his post at the wall to trod over to Ferre, all-morning-groggy and nervous. 

“So you know how serious I am about this.” 

Courf smiled, throwing away any false-pretences of seriousness, and before he knew it, Ferre was kissing him—

Or maybe he’d kissed Ferre—

Or there was something in the air—

Or the puppet master of the universe had pulled on their strings simultaneously sending them crashing into one another after having been kept apart for so long. Courf felt Ferre’s heart in his hands as he cupped his face. He tasted of brown sugar, and the smell of french toast filled the air and mingled with the remnants of his cologne from the night before. Courf was bathing in the closeness, relishing the feeling of stubble scratching together, as if he’d never felt anything before, like all this time he’d been walking without ever touching solid ground. 

Good god, he could revolve around Ferre for the rest of his life, but if contact wasn’t a fucking beautiful thing. 

Courf still pulled away first. He caught Ferre blinking his eyes open in a daze before realizing why the perfect moment had to end. 

Ferre scrambled to the stovetop, pulling the pan from the burner just as wisps of smoke started to creep around the edges of the french toast. 

“Shit.” 

“Worth it?” Courf teased. 

“Well, I don’t need them as a distraction anymore, so yeah, absolutely.” 

With his bellowed laugh, the headache Courf had pushed tot he backseat reared itself once more, and he made a face as he ducked out of the kitchen to pad down the hall to the bathroom. The lights flickered on, and he didn’t even see a dishevelled mess in the mirror, let alone the eyeliner left over from the party or the dark circles that’d inevitably follow him around all day. All he could see was the face of a man who’d just kissed his best friend—and it’d gone fucking swimmingly.

“Hey!” Ferre voice echoed down the hall.

“What?” Courf unscrewed the bottle of Advil and rationed one, two into the palm of his hand. He could still feel the curve of Ferre’s jaw, his fingers twitching with nerves. 

“Before I forget—“ 

“Yeah?” 

“Text Floreal.” 

Courf laughed. 

"I love you so fucking much."

**Author's Note:**

> ooooh who said the last line?!?! it doesnt matter they both did, they're fucking nerds in love with each other
> 
> hi! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I havent written courf in such a long time and it was a really nice headspace to get back into what with the current chaos that is life!
> 
> title is from I'd Give It All For You from songs for a new world, which is a bop, so, 
> 
> If you liked this, you can click through and check out some of my other works, my current passion project is a les mis Zombie AU with Combeferre and R as dysfunctional brothers called Long Way to Makin' it Right--this isn't at all set in the same universe (except for the fact that everyone's canadian), but if you like what I do, please check it out!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ mysteriouscynic


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